


Nightbringer

by Tak138



Series: Nightbringer [1]
Category: Original Work
Genre: Anal Sex, Angst and Porn, Blindfolds, Cutting, Dubious Consent, Evil, Explicit Sexual Content, Extremely Dubious Consent, F/M, Femdom, Hurt No Comfort, Implied Sexual Content, Implied/Referenced Rape/Non-con, Implied/Referenced Torture, Non-Consensual Bondage, Rape/Non-con Elements, Scars, Sexual Slavery, Slavery, Torture, Voyeurism
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-01-26
Updated: 2020-01-26
Packaged: 2021-02-27 06:28:07
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 1
Words: 12,964
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22412512
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Tak138/pseuds/Tak138
Summary: Svaia of Marde is the most feared warlord of the Northern Isles.She's conquered the country, and now it's time for her to claim her prize.
Relationships: Original Female Character/Original Male Character
Series: Nightbringer [1]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1639807
Comments: 20
Kudos: 62





	Nightbringer

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Cesarinna](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Cesarinna/gifts).



> Beta'd by Sanguia!

There was blood on her blade, on her face. Her muscles sang, her heart an unfettered purr in her chest. The first few hours after a battle were always a celebration, but this?

_This_ was to be a party for the ages. 

Svaia ran her finger down the arm of the throne, feeling the silver details beneath her finger. Her lieutenant, Rissa, stood nearby, just as bloody “Shall we give it the same treatment as all the others, Commander?” she chimed. Svaia tilted her head, considering.

“Where is my prize?” she asked over her shoulder. 

“The royal study, Commander. Under strict guard.”

Nodding, Svaia finally wiped her face on her sleeve. “I have a better idea.”

Five minutes later, there was a gaggle of slaves struggling to pry the metal-veneered throne from the ground and onto a pallet, to be delivered to one of their silversmiths. Unlike the other thrones they had come across during their escapades, this one was of precious metal, not blade-steel. So, it was going to become something far more pretty than a simple sword or dagger. That wood that sat beneath was going to be set ablaze the next morning, whatever survived the process of pry off the silver.

“Have this place cleaned,” Svaia added, surveying the mess of the great hall. “The revelry will begin at dusk.”

It was always glorious to dance in the same ballroom that had been bathed in blood and bodies not a day earlier. Always an incredible rush to bed and _break_ the men you had just captured that morning. And this time was no different, except it was. Because this time, the battle was done. There were no marches the next morning, no lines of chains to find, no buildings that needed to be scorched off the earth. 

Because this time, it wasn’t some countess or earl they butchered, but the Crown itself. 

The image of the blood seeping across the floor was still fresh in her mind. The queen sprawled, headless, across the dais. 

Her missing head was now outside. Spike on the palace wall.

To her people, she was known as Svaia of Marde, but to the people of the Northern Isles, she was known as Nightbringer. Death on two legs. The leader of the most feared band of warrior to ever touch that side of the dark sea. For seven years, they had terrorized the small kingdom, gaining resources, gaining strength. Bouncing from coast to coast, pillaging everything in between. Some fought for them willingly, for glory and power, others not so much. The Isles were not a kingdom of warriors. Some had called them the Isle of Snakes. Svaia hadn’t cared. Snakes could be trampled just as easily as anyone else. And oh, how they’d trampled them. 

Not a single noble-born soul remained, they’d made sure of it. None to challenge her rule. Well, except for two, but they didn’t count. 

Standing beside her, watching the corpses vanish out the many doors, Rissa said, “I’m having the queen’s suite purged as we speak. I’ll have Einri delivered there shortly, since I’m assuming you’ll be too busy?”

Svaia couldn’t help but smirk. “Indeed. And do make sure we aren’t interrupted.”

“As you wish, Commander,” came Rissa’s crooned reply. Svaia didn’t bother idling around any longer, turning to vanish into the royal quarter. She had a prize to claim.

  
  
  


Walking into the royal study, Svaia couldn't help the wicked grin that spread across her face. 

The prince was pale, his face sallow and eyes red. He jolted as the door opened, scrambling out of his chair and to his feet, all but hiding behind the desk between them. She didn't know his name. Forth born prince, he was nothing to no one. 

Except now, he was hers. 

She took a step forward, addressing him in his language. "Hello there."

He said nothing, throat bobbing, not meeting her eye. 

"How old are you, Pet?" Svaia hummed, "You look like a young thing."

"I am no pet," the prince bit out, but his voice wavered. 

_Oh, this is going to be fantastic._

"So you are young, then," She mused as she took a few more steps, making to round the desk. The prince swallowed, but didn't move. Svaia went on, "You aren't wed, so you can’t be older than twenty.”

“You don’t know that!” the prince snaps, a desperate edge to his voice, fists clenching, “You have no idea if I’m wed or not!”

But Svaia just smirks, points to her ring finger, referencing his lack of a wedding band. The prince flushes bright pink. He’s a pretty thing, just like she knew he would be. The entire royal family had been gorgeous, with their gilded hair—his was shoulder length, drawn back into a tiny tail— and eyes so pale they were almost white. 

“You’re under twenty, but you have an official portrait,” she sang. Another few steps, bringing herself closer and closer to his side. To his credit, or maybe his stupidity, the prince doesn’t give ground. He just hunches further and further in on himself. “That means you’re over eighteen. At least I won’t be robbing the cradle when I fuck you.”

The prince goes white, lashes fluttering, jaw clenching. “Y-you can’t,” he tries weakly. “You can’t. I’m— I’m—”

Svaia grabs him by the arm, testing. As expected, the prince cringes away from her, stumbling back, until he hits the wall. His eyes flick desperately towards the door. She grins. “You can try, Pet. But if my warriors get a hold of you before I do, I’ll be obligated to hand you over. And I promise, you will not like that.”

In a panic, the prince chucks a small bronze globe at her head, which she doesn’t even have to dodge. “Fuck you!” he snarled, “You— you can’t do this!”

She tilts her head, still tasting blood on her lips and teeth. “Who is going to stop me? Your mommy?”

A shadow falls across his face, silver lining his eyes as he whispers, “You’re every bit the monster they say you are, Nightbringer.”

Svaia smirks, baring her teeth like a wolf, fire dancing through her veins. “I’m so glad you agree.”

“W-Why me?” he asks, in that pathetically small voice boys always use when they know they’re trapped. 

“Because you’re nothing,” was her simple reply. 

“I’m a prince.”

“You _were.”_

“I am not nothing,” he says sharply, “I’m not, you’re wrong. I’ll never be nothing, I’ll—”

In a single movement, Svaia swept everything off of the desk. Glass shatters, papers go flying, the inkwell splattering across the fancy rug. The prince stares at it, his lips quivering as he croaks, “If you think I’m going to make it easy—”

“I would rather you didn’t,” she purred, “That would be boring.”

His eyes frantically scan the room. For a weapon, or an escape, she doesn’t really care. All she can think about is bending him over the table and making him scream. A lesson she learned early; the further down the family line they are, the more fun they are to mess with. There’s something miserable to them, always knowing they’re unwanted, unnecessary. They’re used to bullying, be it from their peers or family, so they won’t break in too many pieces. But they’re far more pathetic, far more malleable.

She can’t wait to see what he becomes under hand. The broken ones are always the most loyal.

Advancing on him, Svaia couldn’t help but heave a full-throated cackle, her laugh reverberating around the study, as the prince backed himself further and further into the corner, his breathing ragged, a few fat tears rolling down his cheeks.

“Aren’t you pathetic,” she crowed, “I haven’t even touched you yet, and you’re already weeping.”

“Fuck you!” he cried. 

This time, Svaia just snickered, “Poor choice of words, Pet.” She stuck him just once, knocking his head up and back. He dropped like a stone. 

  
  


By the time the prince woke, just a few minutes later, she had already secured him, belly up, to the desk using the tattered remains of his shirt. His arms splayed wide, one wrist to a desk corner, while this legs went to the desk legs, leaving him arched and straining. At first, he didn’t even struggle. He just blinked wildly, a bruise already forming on his jaw. But then he realized he was shirtless, and bound, and gagged, and he lost it. Screaming, fruitlessly yanking on his bonds, nearly wrenching his arms from their sockets. 

Svaia just watched from her seat in that lovely plush chair the prince had been in earlier. Letting him tire himself out. As much as she loved the flailing and screaming, they would only get in the way.

“Keep going, Lovely,” she hummed, fiddling with the blade in her hand. “What was that about not making it easy for me?”

Eventually, the prince sags, a beautiful sheen of sweat all across his body as he gasped and panted. She rose, striding over to the desk's side. She's abandoned her armor on the floor, as well as most of her weapons, save for the knife in her hand. The prince catches sight of it, and makes a plaintive whining noise in the back of his throat. 

"Oh, you like it?" Svaia purrs, twirling it in her fingers. Tossing his head from side to side, the prince tries again to escape. The expert ties hold him all but perfectly still. She moves behind his head as it lolls back against the desk's back edge. His eyes are wide, panicked, as they follow her every move. "You know, something occurred to me while you were out," she says, as she runs her hand through his hair, "I'm technically your queen now. How does that sound?" 

His jaw clenched around the cloth in his mouth. Of course he doesn't like that idea, considering his now dead mother last held that title. Though perhaps he's not as stupid as she expected, because he doesn't say anything. 

She continues, "So, I know I said I don't want you to make it easy, but I'll, heh, _cut_ you a little deal. You renounce her formally as your queen, and declare me in her stead, and I won't cut you to bits. How does that sound?" 

Teary eyed as he may be, the prince's gaze only hardens, and he shakes his head. Nodding, Svaia rests her palms on her knees, stooping down so their eyes are just inches apart. "I was hoping you'd say that," she whispers, "Now I get to have my fun. By the end of the next few days, you better believe I’ll have you saying whatever I want.”

He grunts something from behind his gag, but she doesn't care to figure out what it is. All she can think about is the way his blood will glisten in the candlelight. 

"Right. Let's get to it," she hums, straightening up. The prince begins fighting with renewed vigor, screeching, his eyes wild with terror, as she takes the small blade in her hand, howling before her blade even touches his skin.

  
  


She cuts whorls across his skin, her heart hammering with glee as she feels his flesh break and split. She carves her name in all the languages she knows, draws lewd symbols on his hips. He pants, and mewls like a kitten when she cuts a shallow line down his navel towards his groin, ending it with two wings to create an arrow. His blood is perfectly red, beading across his muscled chest, gathering in tiny pools where his body met the desk. 

Removing his gag, Svaia studied his eyes. They were wide, feverbright. Unfocused as they fluttered and swam around her face.

“T-Thought you were gonna… f-fuck me…” slurs the prince. Her mouth quirking to the side, she glances out the window. A few hours have passed, though she hadn’t noticed through her fun; his skin is pale, his eyes unfocused. He's barely conscious. 

“Oh, I will,” she promises offhandedly, “But I want you to offer that to me. Willingly.”

“N-Never, I would… I would never..”

“Mhm, Sure. Just like you’ll never pronounce me your rightful queen?”

That stirs a fire in him. Blinking his eyes clear, the prince just barely manages to focus on her face. “I won’t,” he declares, voice trembling, “I won’t. No matter what you do to me, you’ll never be my queen.”

Svaia hums, tapping her finger on the edge of the desk. “Keep saying that, Lovely. It makes this all the more interesting.”

He turns wild once more as she ties the gag back in place, and resumes her game.

She only finishes as the sun sets. There’s not a bare strip of skin on him. She’d even gone and cut off his pants, flaying his flesh like fresh fish. Even his cock. Now that had made her grateful for the gag, otherwise her ears may have bled too. He’d flushed such a vicious red when she’d bared him, his knees working as he tried to cover himself. That had stopped the second he’d realized that, as painful as it was, he did not want her making a mistake down there.

By the end of it, the prince was nothing more than a whimpering, trembling pile of blood and tears, and piss, the pitiful thing.

He’d stopped fighting at one point or another, instead just lying still as she all but tore him open, minus the occasional flinch or wince. 

Her face is streaked with his blood. It’s smeared across her arms, staining the linen on her tunic. It hung in the air like a perfume, coating her tongue like the sweetest of wines. But she was bored, and had already missed some of the revelry. So Svaia had him moved to the dungeons, leaving the slaves with firm instructions not to release him from the desk no matter what the cause, only allowed to address the very worst of his wounds.

  
  


The celebration was little more than a haze, as it always was. When the wine began flowing, everything went blue around the edges. There were bodies all around her. Be it her sisters in blood and blade, the musicians who played like their lives depended on it— it did— or the slaves that writhed and whimpered with each beat.

Fireworks pierced the sky, her sisters chanting her name the entire while. Until the ground shook with it, until the sky trembled and threatened to fall.

_Nightbringer._

_Nightbringer._

_Nightbringer._

It went on through the night and day, while the city outside the castle burned and burned and burned.

  
  


When Svaia woke, it was to gentle hands braiding her hair. In any other situation, she would have gutted whomever dared to touch her. But the bed was soft, plush with expensive furs and pelts. And the body behind her smelled of copper and honey.

“Einri?” she groaned into the pillow. There was a wicked pounding in her skull, as if someone had checked her with the blunt end of a pike.

“I’m here, Mistress,” Einri whispered, his hands never ceasing. “I beg your forgiveness for disturbing you. When Lady-Lieutenant Rissa brought you, she mentioned you had been sick. I thought you might want your hair out of the way if it happens again.”

Now that he mentioned it, she could taste bile and wine on the back of her teeth. The thought made her stomach churn, made the room spin. Gently, Einri rolled her onto her back, pressed a cup of bitter tasting liquid to her lips. She drank without complaint, letting out a noise of irritation when her head didn’t immediately settle.

Einri set a damp cloth on her forehead, plumped the pillow around her neck. “Please rest, Mistress. You’ve been at it for nearly two days.”

“T-The,” she had to stop, swallow again. “The prince?”

“Lady-Lieutenant Rissa checked on him, Mistress. She reported giving him water and dousing his wounds in alcohol, but nothing else.”

Svaia nodded, then immediately regretted it. “T-Time?”

There was a pause, a shifting in the bed. “Mistress, I beg your forgiveness, I do not know exactly, there are no clocks. But based on the moon, I think it may be close to three in the morning.”

“How… how long have I been here?”

“Just a few minutes, Mistress.”

She groaned, pressed her hands to her eyes. The cloth was helping somewhat, though not nearly enough. “You—” she blurted, and felt Einri stiffen above her.

“How can I be of service, Mistress?”

Svaia had to lick her lips, her tongue feeling fat and heavy in her mouth. “Have you eaten?” 

A quiet, barely audible sigh of relief. “No, Mistress. I have not left the suite. Lady-Lieutenant Rissa delivered me some water, though.”

She couldn’t help the grin that spread to her lips. She must still be a little drunk. 

“You’re a good boy,” Svaia said, the barest slur to her voice. “Kiss me.”

Without hesitation, Einri obeyed. His lips were soft against hers, unassuming, ready to take whatever she gave him. Even though this time she could only manage a single chaste kiss.

He was the best conquest she had ever made. Tall, taller than her, with sleek brown hair he always wore in a tail or a plait. The very first person she'd ever broke; the bastard brother of a countess on the southern most island. She could brutalize him whenever the urge hit, and he never seemed to even remember it, let alone resent her. Then again, she shouldn’t be surprised. He was the first person she ever broke, her very best work. Or at least, the first person she ever broke with the intention to keep. 

The benefits of a well-shattered pet. 

She couldn’t wait until she got the prince to that place. She could already see it. His frightened, begging voice, his desperate attempts to stay still as she ravaged him. There would have to be more to it, though. To properly kill the prince inside him.

He needed a name.

“Is the celebration still going on?” Svaia rasped, managing to open her eyes long enough to see Einri walked across the room to a pitcher on one of the tables.

“Yes Mistress, but it was on its last legs. A party for the Queen-Commander can’t very well go on without her.” He brought her a glass of water, which she too drank. It was stale, tasted like it had been in the pitcher for two long, but she was way too fucking parched not to swallow it all. 

“Wait, Queen-Commander?” she echoed, when it was all gone. Seated on the bed to her left, Einri nodded, tucked some of his dark hair behind his ear.

“Yes, Mistress. That’s what Lady-Lieutenant Rissa addressed you as.”

“Lady-Lieutenant?” She’d only just caught it.

His expression did something strange then. Flickering, like it always did when he was hiding fear. Quietly, Einri said, “Was I… Was I not supposed to call her that?”

“No, I just—” she hissed as a fresh wave of pain knocked against her skull, making Einri flinch halfway out of his skin. “No, I just didn’t realize we were doing that shit yet. I’m— I’m out of it.”

“Of course, Mistress. I beg your forgiveness for—”

She waved away his apology, pressing her thumb to her brow. “Forget it. Did they— is my stuff up here?”

“Yes, Mistress.”

“Did you do anything with it?”

She felt him jerk, felt the panic flicker through him like an arrow. “No! No, Mistress, I would never. I would never touch your things— I am better than that, I promise, I would never—”

Again, Svaia waved his words away, growing more and more aggravated with his groveling by the breath. “Find my red silk pouch,” she instructed, “I should have a few pain tonics in there.”

“— Yes, Mistress. I beg your forgiveness—”

“Einri,” she warned.

He jumped off of the bed, vanishing to some place she couldn’t see through her half-lidded eyes. He returned just a little while later, the telltale blue bottle in hand. She let him help her drink, not trusting herself to keep her head upright. This time, she all but purred as the headache abated instantaneously. 

“Good boy,” she mumbled. Now that the pain was gone, she found herself feeling exhausted once more.

Einri corked the bottle and set it aside, going to his knees at her bedside. “Is there anything else you require, Mistress?”

Svaia yawned, her ears popping, before she asked, “Where have you been sleeping, Pet?”

“I… I requested my cot be brought up, Mistress. I’ve been sleeping by the hearth. I-If that was wrong of me, I pray you’ll forgive me, I—”

“Sleep with me tonight,” she cut him off. “As a reward for taking such good care of your Mistress.”

He made some sort of strange, breathless noise. “Of course, my Mistress. I would be honored. May I ask how you would like me…?”

She heard him swallow, heard him shimmy out of his shirt, and opened her eyes just long enough to see the mottled burn scar across his chest and belly. Where she’d had the doctor take care of all the ugly cuts on his body once he no longer required constant shame to stay submissive.

Sighing, she amended, “ _Just_ sleep, Pet. I’m too fucked up for anything else.”

“O-Oh,” he breathed, sounding like he might have been smiling. “Of course, Mistress. My apologies for assuming.”

He settled down beside her, on top of the covers, waiting for her permission to join her in the warmth beneath. She granted it, and then granted it again when he waited to snuggle up to her side. He was warm beneath her touch, the pattern of his scars interesting and lovely as she ran her fingers across his shoulders. So much better than the cock she had cut into him, the first night she had him.

It seemed like a lifetime away, even if it was only just shy of seven years.

“I want you to sleep in tomorrow,” Svaia whispered, her lips brushing his forehead. “I will send someone with a proper meal.”

His arms tightened just a little bit around her middle, his face pressed close to her beating heart, as he murmured, “Thank you, Mistress. Your kindness and mercy will not go unappreciated.”

Always so formal, this one. Then again, they did not share the same native language. He probably didn’t understand how to be informal, despite the slang she threw every day. He probably didn’t want to risk it. 

She had beaten him for less, after all.

  
  
  


The next morning, Svaia awoke refreshed and feeling significantly better, thanks to the health tonic. She left Einri with a bloody bite mark on his shoulder, and a playful scolding for not sleeping in. Of course, she wasn’t serious. After a celebration like that, it was impossible for her to treat her pet so cruelly. Though his frightened, panicked whispering had been the best part of her morning.

The second best part was finally heading down into the dungeons, to see her prince in all his glory. The blood had dried by then, and was probably itchier than all hell. That was to say nothing of the grime that had accumulated on his stretched body, or what other fluids had appeared after being imprisoned for a day and two nights. He’d glared heatlessly when she strode in, his eyes hazy and drunk with pain. His muscles had to be positively screaming by then, a firm line of bruising already appearing where his back was strained against the desk. The rags had left his joints ugly and chafed, while every five seconds his neck muscles gave out and his head lolled back, forcing all the blood to turn his face a beautiful shade of red. And the gag was gross with saliva, practically waterboarding him.

All in all, it was an excellent sight to behold.

Svaia didn’t speak at first, even as the prince made desperate, half mad babbles through his gag. He wasn’t ready yet. She could feel it in her bones. There was still too much life behind his eyes, too much fire still inside him.

So she didn’t bother asking if he would do as she commanded. Even as his eyes trailed after her, head swaying from side to side, pleading, begging. 

It wasn’t enough. 

She really wanted to fuck him up. Really wanted to _fuck_ him. But instead, she kept proper control of herself. Too much too fast, and all of her hard work would be for naught. The only use for an empty-eyed prince was as a whore, and that wasn’t what she wanted. She was going to more or less follow the same formula she had discovered with Einri. 

She was going to make him desperate for her company. And deny him every step of the way.

Finally, Svaia rounded the table a second time, running her hand down his scarring chest. The prince just shuddered, a few fresh tears falling from his eyes.

“It’s your lucky day,” Svaia said, “I don’t feel like cutting you up any worse.”

Quivering with exhaustion, the prince struggled to lift his head, his eyes just barely meeting hers.

“You know what I do feel like, though?” she went on. He made a quiet noise of question, his head starting to bob up and down. A smirk spreading to her lips, Svaia grabbed the torch on the wall, the only source of light this deep in the dungeons. “I feel like fucking my boy, so that’s what I’m going to do. See you later.”

Without a second look, she vanished out of the cell and down the corridor, leaving the prince alone in complete black, with nothing but his panicked, desperate cries as company. 

  
  
  


She returned the next evening with a skin of water and a small plate of food, both of which were carried by Einri. The prince looked at them with fear and desperation in his eyes, a constant trembling to his appendages. 

"Einri, remove his gag," commanded Svaia. Her boy moved to obey without question or hesitation, ignoring the prince's violent flinch as he approached. 

"How are you feeling?" she inquired. The prince groaned, his head sagging back off the desk. 

"H-hurts," he croaked. "Hurt so bad. P-please…" 

"Einri, dismissed," she said over her shoulder, knowing her boy had a deep seated fear of dungeons, related to his own conditioning. She wasn't in the mood to see him suffer, and the rush of satisfaction she felt as she watched his expression clear, watched him sink to the ground and kiss her feet before running out, was well worth it. When she looked up, Svaia saw the prince staring at her. She grinned, "You want up, Lovely?"

Frantically, he nodded. 

"Well, you've got to earn it."

The prince groaned, limbs spasming, and dropped his head back down.

"Hey, none of that," Svaia hissed, smacking the inside of his thigh, making him jerk and squeak, "You want to eat, don't you?" 

She saw him give a weak nod, and smacked him again. "Then you will at least pretend to pay attention. Look at me when I speak to you."

The effort it took him to raise his head was tangible, and almost immediately it began nodding back. It must be nearly impossible for him to sleep, given the way his body was strained. Ignoring her instinct to taunt him, Svaia smiled, ran her hand soothingly over the place she had struck. The cuts were already well on their way to healing, but it probably wasn't helping much. 

"There's a good boy," she purred, "You're a good boy. You want something to eat?"

"Y-yes…"

"Yes what?"

"Y-yes p-please."

That wasn't exactly what she'd been seeking, but it worked. 

She stepped behind him, giving him just the smallest piece of relief by allowing him to rest his head against her. His stomach rumbling, the prince watched in desperation as she held out a small bite of bread, just far enough from his mouth that he couldn't snatch it from her fingers 

With a pathetic whine, the prince writhed in his bonds. "Please, _please_."

"Such a pampered little rat. You've never known an hour of hunger, have you?" she snorted. "Lie still."

With a great deal of effort he obeyed, his breathing short and ragged. Svaia fed him the morsel, then a few more. Not nearly enough, but that wasn't her problem. 

"Now, what do you say?" She asked. The prince licked his lips, dry and cracked as they were. 

"Th-thank y-you…"

Svaia nodded, and pressed the water skin to his lips. His fists clenching, the prince drank greedily, spilling some down his chin, only squawking miserably when she pulled it away. 

As she stepped back, the prince's head immediately fell slack, his face contorting in pain.

A grin on her face, Svaia squatted down so she was eye level with him. "Are you tired, Pet?"

A weak nod. 

"You want me to let you up?" 

Another nod. 

"Are you going to do as I ask?" 

To this, he hesitated, legs trembling. "W-what—"

She smacked him, knocking his head to the side, leaving a bright red handprint on his cheek. "You do not ask questions," she snarled, "It's either yes, or no. Do you understand?"

"No, I—"

She smacked him again, his head snapping the other way. "It's either yes or no, you fucking moron. Next time, I'm just going to leave you here. Do you understand?" 

Tears running down his face into his hair, the prince croaked, "Y-yes…"

"Are you going to do what I tell you?"

Another moment of hesitation. Svaia rolled her eyes and straightened, reaching for the torch—

"Wait, wait!" cried the prince. "I will! Yes— yes, I'll do whatever you want!"

She made a show of hesitating, glancing at him over her shoulder. "So, if I were to tell you to renounce your former queen…?"

His expression crumpled, his muscles spasming against the ties. "I can't— I can't, please, I—"

Svaia replaced his gag, tying it tight in place, even as the prince struggled and wept. "We'll try again in a few days," she said, almost cooing, and took her leave. 

Einri got fucked out of his mind that night, and fell asleep where she left him. In a pile by the footboard. 

  
  
  


She returned to the prince the next afternoon, finding him blinking owlishly at the ceiling, halfway delirious. 

Svaia tweaked one of his nipples, bringing his attention back to her. "Feeling good?" She chimed. The prince only whimpered, his head sliding back. Until she commanded him to look at her again, and he struggled to obey. 

"Not my eyes, you fool," she sniped, cruelly twisting his poor nipple and making his face go even paler. "You look at _me_. Not my eyes, you got it?" 

He nodded, almost drunkenly, and averted his eyes to her chin. She removed the gag, let him drink from her water skin. The stench coming off of him was practically toxic. One of these days, she was going to have to get him cleaned up. Maybe with a few buckets of ice water. 

When the water skin was mostly empty, Svaia tossed it aside, and allowed her fingers to roam along his thighs. He lied their pitifully, not making a sound as his eyes followed her fingers. They traced all of his cuts, now largely healed but still tender, his legs trembling. His feet had to be bruised by now, forced against the floor as the were. And his back was royally fucked up, if she remembered Einri correctly. Pretty soon she would have to let him up, or else he would begin to accumulate permanent damage.

Not that she was going to tell him that. 

"You know who I am, don't you?" she said, toying with one of his many half-healed cuts.

The prince had to swallow several times before he managed a pained, "Y-yes…"

"You know what I'm capable of? What my sisters and I have accomplished?"

"Ye-yeah…"

"So why do you insist on defying me?" she sighed, "You must know you can't win."

The prince swallowed again. His head began to fall back. Svaia smacked his stomach, earning a sharp gasp. "Head up, Bitch," she spat, "You look at me when I'm speaking to you, got it?" 

Clamping his quivering lips together, the prince nodded, pressed his chin to his chest in a frantic attempt to follow orders. 

"I'm getting bored of waiting for you to give in naturally," Svaia went on at length. With the pad of her finger, she traced a wound that spelled out _cunt_ just above his right pectoral. The prince's eyes followed it the entire time, miserable and hollow. She continued, "Do you want to know what I'm going to do if I have to wait much longer?" 

"P-please, no…" he whispered. 

Svaia told him anyways. "If you don't cave in a few days, I'm going to cut you again. But this time, I won't leave your pretty face alone. Or those gorgeous little eyeballs." 

Said eyeballs bugged wide, a heavy sweat breaking across his brow. "You would— you would blind me?" 

“Maybe, I'm sure we'll find out," Svaia shrugged. 

"W-what… what else?"

"What do you mean?" She chimed innocently, "You said you didn't want to hear them, didn't you?" 

The prince mewled, throwing his head back. This time, Svaia yanked him by the balls, which came with a delightful scream. "Don't make me tell you again, Lovely," she hissed, "Or I may very well take these off."

Choking on a sob, the prince tossed his head desperately from side to side, "Please, please—"

Svaia cut him off, "I suppose I can tell you what I intend to do if you _don't_ break, hm? Would you like to hear that?"

"Stop it— _stop it_ , I can't—"

"I'm going to do to you what I do to every noble that survives the assault," she said, releasing his jewels in favor of fingering the arrow she cut down his navel. "The ones that aren't any use to me, anyways." 

She strode around the desk, the prince cringing away as desperately as he could. Stooping, Svaia put her lips right next to his ear. "Care to take a guess, Lovely?" She breathed. 

The only response was a desperate tug of the ties. Of course, they held firm. 

She ran one hand through his hair, the other down his chest. Feeling the rapid pulse of his heart, the ragged panting of his breathing. "If, after all my hard work, you remain strong, I will have no need of you. And do you know how I dispose of royal things I don't need?" He stopped fighting, stopped squirming, and instead just stared at her, his eyes so wide she could see the whites all around. Svaia grinned, her blood rushing to her ears as she whispered, "I set them on fire."

She expected him to start bucking and writhing, but instead, the prince just lay there. His mouth gaping wide, his chest still beneath her hand. His eyes had gone unfocused, the blood completely drawn from his face. 

"Oh, Pet," she hummed, cupping his face, "You look like you've seen a ghost!" 

"P-please," he whispered, staring at nothing, "Please, please, please…"

Rising back up, Svaia patted his chest in mock comfort. "Don't worry, Lovely. That's still a few days away yet." 

_"Days?"_ He cried, "No, no! You can't, please, _please_!" 

"So you don't want to die? Burned alive?"

The prince squeezed his eyes shut. "Please, no, no! Gods, no, _no!"_

"Gods?" Svaia echoed, laughing softly, "I'm your only god, Bitch. And you better accept it if you want to survive to see the sun again." 

Choking on his own breath, the prince nodded frantically, "Yes, yes! Whatever you want, I'll— I'll do whatever you want. _Please_." 

She snorted, resting her palms on the desk on either side of his head, "You lie."

"No, no, please! I'm not, I swear, please, let me show you!" 

Svaia raised an eyebrow, "Oh?" 

"Yes," he gasped, "Yes, yes, please!"

In a single movement Svaia cut his wrists free. The prince slid to the ground, keening as his muscles moved for the first time in days. 

"Untie your ankles," commanded Svaia. The prince didn't move, hunched over on his hands and knees. She rolled her eyes, and stomped the heel of her boot down on his fingers. 

The prince screamed, the sound reverberating through the small stone room. 

"I'm sorry, I'm sorry, I—"

"Now!"

Twisting, the prince struggled to reach his ankles let alone untie them. Still, he was trying. Svaia didn't let her impatience show, allowing him to fumble. At least he was trying to obey. 

Soon one ankle came free, and he bent to reach the other one. When that one came free and the prince struggled to rise. 

Svaia knocked him down with a light kick, "You do not rise until I tell you to." 

"Y-Yes Ma'am…" 

"Not Ma'am," Svaia corrected, "You will call me Mistress." 

The prince looked up at her, fear and terror written on his face. She placed her foot on his chest, resting just a bit of her weight on him. Just enough to know that she could crush his ribs if she tried. 

"Yes… Yes, Mistress," he whispered. 

She couldn't keep the grin off of her face. 

  
  
  


She had the cell cleaned overnight, including the prince himself. She even allowed him a full meal and a proper drink of water. Beyond that, Svaia left him alone for most of the next day. She was busy anyways, putting the kingdom back together under a new rule. 

It was times like these that she did genuinely appreciate Einri. The kingdom was tumultuous, unsteady, all stressful things she would never express to her sisters. They would think less of her. She was always supposed to be strong, unyielding. It wasn't just anyone that could rise to lead, and there were dozens of other women vying for her position. To show weakness was a death sentence.

Einri didn't care. She was his god, before everything else. He obeyed her and adored her regardless of her strength at any given moment. He kissed her feet, her hands, her lips, regardless of how firm she stood. 

He didn't demand anything of her, whether it was because she beat that out of him or not. There was no expectation. No requirement. If she had her way, Svaia would have spent more time with Einri than anyone else. 

He was a good boy. 

When she next visited the prince, Svaia found him dozing lightly in the corner of his cell, propped between the desk and the wall. He woke when the door clanged open, beginning to tremble as she came near. 

"You look better," Svaia said. 

The prince swallowed. "I-I feel better. Thank you, M-Mistress."

She couldn't help but look him up and down. Now that the blood was gone, his cuts and wounds were on full display. She wondered what he thought of them. If he had tried to look, only to realize just how vulgar they all were. 

Svaia pursed her lips. Cupping his face in her hands, she flicked his nose, "What did I tell you about meeting my eyes, Lovely."

He flinched far beyond proportion, lowering his gaze to her chin. "I-I'm sorry, I'm really sorry, I—"

"Hush," she said, not unkindly. His mouth snapped shut with an audible click. 

She could feel his shaking, his naked body covered in gooseflesh. 

Carding her fingers through his hair, Svaia quietly remarked, "I remember you claiming you would do anything I asked."

Throat bobbing, the prince nodded, "Y-Yes, Mistress. Whatever— whatever you want."

Svaia stepped back, her hands in the pocket of the pretty new jacket she found among the things purged from the castle. "Anything?"

He wrung his hands in his lap, pressed against the wall like he hoped it would open and swallow him whole. "Yes, Mistress. A-anything..."

She nodded, took a moment to think it over. And then, she presented him with her boot. "Kiss it." 

The prince's eyes bugged wide. "I-I…"

"Come on," she scolded, "You said anything." 

There was revulsion on his face, disgust and despair. He might have been the fourth born, but she doubted he'd ever been forced to do this. 

With a sigh of impatience, Svaia kicked out, catching him in the ribs. "You're a liar." 

The prince gasped, coughed, clutching at what was surely a bruised rib. 

She rolled her eyes, turning to leave. 

"Wait—" he sputtered, clutching at her pant leg. "Wait, p-please, I didn't—"

"Be quiet," spat Svaia, as she shook him off, "You never would have done it."

White faced, the prince grabbed for her again. "I would have! I— I will, I was just— just surprised, please, please," he babbled. "I can be good, I can be useful, I promise, please!"

She scoffed, held her foot out once again, "Prove it, Wretch. Be careful, I might decide to break that pretty nose of yours." 

Expression twisting, the prince sniffled quietly. Staring down at her boot as if it were a live snake.

"Get on with it already," Svaia barked. He cringed, throat bobbing. Then, ever so slowly, he pressed his lips to her toe. She huffed, chiding, "You can do better than that, can't you?"

"B-Better?"

"Yes, better," she drawled, "Are you trying to prove yourself or not?"

"I-I am…"

"Then do better!"

He winced, slowly lowering himself to hover over her boot. 

Svaia made herself smile, hiding the sadistic glee as best she could. "You can do it," she coaxed, "Put your heart into it. Kiss it like a lover."

For a minute, it was just the two of them breathing. The prince, face a pretty red, his hands fisted against the stone floor. Svaia, watching for any sign, any reason to kick him into next week. Seeing just how far she could push him. Then he kissed her foot again, this time actually making a sound. Then he sought out her second foot, kissed the boot's toe, and then the ankle. 

He licked his lips, peering up at her through his dark lashes. "H-how was that?"

"Better," Svaia relented. "Significantly better."

He released a heavy breath, tears lining his eyes. "I'm trying, I promise— I-I just, I don't know—"

She cut him off with a wave of her hand, going to sit on the bloodstained desk. "Come here."

The prince made to rise, but she held up a finger. "I want to see you crawl, Pet."

"Crawl?" He echoed, voice small. 

"Did I stutter?"

His answering gulp was audible. "No, Mistress," he said to the floor. Slowly, he went down to all fours, his entire chest turning red with shame. 

She smirked, leaning back on her palms. "Come on then, Pet."

Slowly, as if every movement physically pained him, the prince began to crawl. And he kept crawling until he was at her feet where, at her command, he knelt. 

"Very good," she praised. The relief spread across his face like blood on smooth tile, and he almost, _almost_ smiled. 

"Thank you, Mistress," he croaked, "Am I— did I do well enough to—"

"To not be burned alive?" She finished, and he winced at her blunt words. 

"Y-yeah…" 

Svaia shook her head, her heart skipping a best at the way his face fell. 

"Please," he whimpered, lips quivering, "Please, please, h-how can I be better? What can I do? How can I— how can I prove myself to you?" 

She sighed. "Give it time, Lovely. Give it—"

"No!" He cried, "No, I don't have time, you said I had _days_. I can't wait, I don't want to die, you have to tell me—" 

Svaia knocked him to the ground with a punch to the face. "You do _not_ give me orders, Bitch," she spat. "And you most definitely do _not_ tell me no." 

The prince struggled to rise. Svaia swung a heavy kick into his side, and based on his answering shriek something must have cracked. 

"P-Please," he groaned, clutching at that place on his side, "Please, _please."_

He turned his face towards her, and she punched him again. Again and again she struck him, the sound of flesh on flesh echoing around them. Everytime he tried to get up, tried to speak, tried to move. Until he was nothing but a bruised, trembling mess, huddled on the floor. 

With her foot, Svaia rolled him onto his back. Blood dripped from his split lip, from his nose. His face was swollen, his abdomen spattered with bruises. 

"Look what you made me do," she hissed. "You stupid, pathetic bitch." 

He choked on a little sound, something that might have been a plea. Svaia just scoffed, rolled her eyes. He didn't protest as she took the torch from the wall. Didn't even move as she shut and locked the heavy cell door, leaving him in darkness once again. 

To the women on guard at the end of the twisting corridor, Svaia said, "I want him fed and watered every other day. Do not speak to him."

"As you will it, Queen-Commander," they said in unison, saluting with two fingers to their brow. 

  
  


Later on, seated on the bed, Einri was wrapping her knuckles, which had split after earlier. 

She could tell he wanted to say something. His lips kept moving from side to side, opening as though he would speak, but then he would think better of it. 

Finally, Svaia had enough. "Out with it," she huffed. 

His gaze flicked to her face, her mouth. "It is not worth your time, Mistress."

"Einri," she warned, "Don't tell me you're going to act up too." 

He swallowed, expression tightening. "No, Mistress, never. I-I… I do not want to offend you."

She raised an eyebrow. Einri hadn't said anything of offense in two, maybe three years. 

Her expression hardening, she grunted, "Spit it out."

Setting the roll of bandages aside, Einri slid down to his knees at her feet, resting his hands utop his thighs. "I… have found myself torn, Mistress."

"Torn how?" 

His fingers began trembling, his hands slowly curling into fists. "Mistress, I beg your forgiveness—"

"Einri," she snapped. 

"I find myself pitying the boy," he blurted, terror in his voice. "Everytime I think of you harming him, my heart hurts and I have a second where I question you, a-and I have to correct myself. I'm really, really sorry Mistress. I—"

Svaia held up her hand, and he quieted.

Softly, she asked, "How often does this happen?"

"... nearly every time I think about him, or-or you. So, several times an hour." 

"And you've been correcting yourself?" 

He nodded. 

"Let me see."

Einri stripped off his pants, showing her the marks on his thighs left by the leather tawse he used for self-correction. They had discovered fairly early on that Svaia couldn't be there for every mistake Einri made, given how busy she was. So she had come up with a way for him to correct himself. It had been helpful, until she saw the raised, angry skin that was so close to breaking— the places where it _had_ broken. She didn't even know a tawse could _do_ that much damage. It was mostly a tool for reflection, not actual punishment. 

There must have been something on her face, because Einri grew several shades paler. "I am sorry," he whispered, "I am so, so sorry. I know I'm supposed to tell you, and I was trying to, but I— I didn't want to report an issue when you were already so busy, I wanted to try and fix it, a-and…" 

He shrunk under her glare, the muscles of his mouth twitching and trembling.

Aware of the fire in her stomach, Svaia took a slow, deliberate breath. "You're supposed to tell me as soon as possible," she said slowly, "You're not supposed to wait."

"I-I know, Mistress. But you were so b-busy, and already troubled, and I didn't want to make it worse…"

"I don't believe that's your decision," she remarked. Einri ducked his head, a ragged edge to his breathing. 

After a second, Svaia just shook her head. He was right, her head was already so full of nonsense, there wasn't room for this. 

"Dress your wounds," she grunted, "Whatever that means. I don't want you touching the tawse until that's completely healed."

"Y-yes, Mistress." 

She clenched her jaw. Relaxed it. Clenched it again. 

_I'm not supposed to have to worry about him._

_He's supposed to be just fine on his own._

Perhaps she had grown soft, had allowed cracks to form in his mind. Cracks that weren't supposed to be there. 

Perhaps that was why the prince was taking longer to progress than any of her other captives. 

Had she grown soft? For Einri, yes. Of course. She was able to admit that to herself. But otherwise? 

She didn't _feel_ any different. The battles hadn't seemed different. 

"I need to be firmer with you," Svaia sighed. 

"Of course, Mistress."

"You don't sound happy to hear that."

He swallowed again, his breath catching. "My opinion is irrelevant, Mistress."

"Obviously. But I want to know what's changed."

He hesitated for a long minute, eyes focused on the ground. Then, Einri rasped, "I— enjoy how things are right now. But I know that if I enjoy it, that means it's wrong. I'm not— I'm not supposed to enjoy this." 

Another fact. One she had ground into him the moment they met. He wasn't supposed to like anything she did, because he was supposed to be suffering. 

She really had gone soft. Because she had found herself enjoying things as well. She didn't have the energy to strip the skin from his feet anymore. To hold him beneath the water until he stopped moving, to bend his fingers backwards, to choke him until his eyes rolled. They all _sounded_ just as fun as all those years ago, but did she want to do it? 

Not really. 

Those things were meant to break his spirit and keep him broken, and for her fun. He was already broken, and she didn't feel like doing it. At least, not nearly as often. 

"Okay," Svaia breathed, "I'll send away your cot, and you can sleep on the floor."

"Yes, Mistress." 

_Make it worse. You're supposed to make it worse. Make him scream, make him beg, make him cry._

_Fuck, I have gone soft._

It wasn't that bad. At least it wouldn't be, if she was only soft with Einri. 

She needed to talk to Rissa. Her lieutenant would tell it to her straight.

"Give me your hand," she sighed. He obeyed, hand just barely shaking. Svaia took his middle finger and bent it all the way back. 

Einri squeezed his eyes shut, gritting back a scream.

"What do you say?"

He forced his eyes open, a few tears slipping out. "Th-thank you, Mistress. Your m-mercy is appreciated." 

Svaia patted his cheek. "Go take care of your nonsense." 

Einri nodded, face still tight as he pulled his pants up with one hand. "Thank you, Mistress." 

  
  
  


She left the prince alone for over two weeks. The guards gave her reports about three times a day, and every one raised her spirits. 

The first few days, he had been quiet, patient. The next few, he had begun asking questions. After that, he began shouting for the guards, growing more and more desperate when they didn't respond. By the middle of the second week, he had started to quietly beg when they would come by to feed him. Speaking in frightened, frantic tones, before resorting to screaming when they inevitably left him. 

Now, on the second day of the third week, at the midday report, Svaia has been informed he had fallen silent. Not begging, not screaming, just sitting quietly, tears rolling down his face.

That's when she decided to pay him a visit. 

She found him in a ball, back between the desk and the wall. 

"Good morning, Lovely," she purred, as she set the torch in its sconce. 

He lifted his head, his eyes bleary and unfocused. "Is it time?" asked the prince, his voice small and meek. 

Svaia played dumb. "Time for what?"

"Time f-for… you know. My death?"

"Oohhh," she inclined her head, smirking at his broken expression, "You mean am I going to light you on fire. That all depends on you."

"W-What do you mean?" 

Svaia hummed, ran her hand along the dirty desk top. "I've decided to give you one more chance." 

He jerked, sitting upright. "Really? You mean it?" 

"I do," she nodded, "In fact, it's pretty simple."

He was watching her with rapt attention, eyes impossibly large. Yes, he was putty in her hands. 

She approached him slowly, as though he were a wary deer. And though he stiffened and pressed back against the wall, the prince did not resist as Svaia wrapped her hands around his throat. Lightly, at first. Feeling the rapid pound of his heartbeat. 

Gently, Svaia whispered, "You want to get out of here, don't you? You want to see the sun again." 

The prince nodded, breath hitching. 

"You don't want to die, do you?"

"N-No, Mistress," he croaked. 

"You want people to talk to you, don't you? No more getting ignored?"

"Gods, yes," he rasped, "Please, please, I'll do whatever you want." 

Svaia nodded, her grip tightening just a little bit. "Renounce your queen," she instructed. The prince swallowed hard, she could feel it. 

"M-Mistress…" 

"You don't want to be stuck here any longer, do you? Seeing nothing but this tiny, pitch black cell?" 

His eyes began filling with tears again, the fire light dancing across his face like a thousand fireflies. "N-No, Mistress…"

Again, her grip tightened. Just enough to make him aware of his breathing. 

"If you renounce your queen, you can come out," she promised, "You'll love my boy, he's a total bleeding heart. I'll take great care of you."

He gave a tiny whine, "Mistress, please, my-my mother—" 

She gripped tighter, her hands now indenting his jugular. The prince squeezed his eyes shut. "Renounce your queen," she commanded, "You call me Mistress and yet you won't obey? Pathetic." 

A tear ran down his cheek, only stopping at her grip. Tighter and tighter, she clenched her hands. Until his face was turning red, until he started fighting, gripping at her wrists. 

"Who owns you, Bitch," Svaia hissed, "Who do you belong to?"

He tried to squeeze out an answer, but the only sound he made was a broken cough. Svaia pressed him back against the wall, her knuckles scraping, her body pressed against his. Beneath her fingers, his pulse was like thunder. He bucked against her grip, clawing at her hands, his face going from red to purple. She released him just long enough for the prince to take one giant gulp of breath, but then she was on him again. 

By his throat, Svaia forced him to the ground, put all of her weight on his chest, and held on. He may have been taller than her, but he was by no means stronger. The panic written on his face told her that he knew it. 

_"Please_ ," he gurgled, eyes bugging out of their sockets, _"Please!"_

She did not relent. Her blood roared through her ears, making her hands tremble. She pushed him further, further, and did not relent. Not until his eyes were dazed, his legs moving only feebly, his hands all but limp on hers. Then, she let him go. The prince gasped, flopping back, his hands on his throat. Bruises in the shape of her fingers were already visible. 

Svaia let him breathe unfettered, for nearly a minute, before she pounced on him again. He put up the barest suggestion of a fight, squirming, batting her hands away. It was barely more than child's play. But before she resumed strangling him, Svaia asked him again, "Who owns you?"

The prince hiccupped, quietly weeping beneath her. "Y-You! You do! Please, please no more, I c-can't…"

She couldn't help the slowly curl of her lips, feeling him flinch as she readjusted her fingers. "Good boy. You want to keep breathing, don't you?" 

A quick, panicked nod. 

Svaia leaned forward, distributing some more of her weight towards her hands. Threatening to cut off his air once again. This proved to be far too much for him, because the prince burst out into fitful sobs. 

"I'll say it!" He wept, "I will, I'll say it! You're my que—"

"Wait." Svaia held her finger to his lips, grin turning wicked. "I have a better idea." 

  
  
  


Nearly an hour later, they were in the throne room, on the dais before the great chamber. Except, there was no throne. The prince kept staring at that spot on the floor, the square where his mother must have ruled barely even a month ago. 

He stood at her side. Dressed in his finery, his hair cleaned and combed back, the ceremonial crown set upon his brow little more than a farce. A small strip of silver, basically a tall headband, lined with blue gems. This was the last time it would ever see the light of day. Svaia had to fight her grin every step of the way. She could see the tears in his eyes, the trembling of his hands. The collar of his blue jacket doing oh so little to hide his bruised throat. 

Einri stood at her other side, dressed in shades of red to match her. His collar, a real proper collar, was a thick golden affair with a single small garnet set at its front, had been polished to a near mirror shine. She couldn't stop touching it, her heart racing with cruel delight. He wore it so rarely, only for special occasions, since he wasn't likely to be mistaken for some common slave. 

He gave her a small, almost-genuine smile. "It is good to see you in better spirits, Mistress," he said softly. 

Svaia chuckled, patting his cheek. "You seem happier as well. Are you excited to get a brother-in-arms?"

Einri nuzzled against her hand. "I hesitate to admit, I fear he may steal your attention away," he whispered, eyes fluttering shut, "But I will stand by you regardless of what happens, Mistress. What you do with your time is none of my business."

"You're a good pet," she whispered, the words just for him. Only for him. And his answering smile was just for her. 

Yes, she could be soft with him. Not too soft, of course. But she could stand to see him smile every now and then. 

This new boy, however? She was going to delight in tearing him apart. 

Soon, the sound of clinking chains filled the air, as lines and lines of prisoners were led through the doors. Her sisters of blood and blade strolled in through others, most dragging slaves of their own. At her side, the prince was squirming, his lips quivering at the sight of those who had once been his subjects. Now subjugated, enslaved, and ready for sale. In fact, most had already gone off. These were what was left. Kept around for specialized training.

These were the ones that had fought, or had at least been near the fighting. Seeing their ruler brought so far down was going to crush whatever morale they had left.

Svaia glanced up to the great domed ceiling, to her sisters patrolling the balconies, armed with their bows and deadly aim. 

Her heart was soaring, her mind finally at ease for the first time since this all began. 

The commotion had begun to settle down as everybody gathered. Until one of the slaves stood up, shouting something she didn't quite catch. There was a twang of a bow, the streak of an arrow through the air, and the slave dropped dead. No one else spoke up.

"My sisters," Svaia called, her voice booming across the crowd. "I know you have been waiting anxiously to see me crowned. I assure you, the wait will be well worth it. This here," she gestured to the prince standing stone-still at her side, "is the fourth born son of the ex-queen, Elyse of Renvasa the Third. Do you have any words you want to share with these fine people, Pet?" 

The prince visibly quailed, looking over the endless crowd. At the lines of people out the doors, at those who had once lived in his city. Now in chains, kneeling on the same floor their royal family had walked on for centuries.

"I-I…" he stammered, trailed off. Svaia shot him a look of warning, and the prince all but cringed. She had been kind enough to let him rehearse this so he didn't make a mess of himself, and now she was sort of regretting this. He licked his lips, trying again. "I-I… I renounce my allegiance to the queen, Elyse of Renvasa the Third, a-and instead I— I pledge my life, body, and soul to the Queen-Commander Svaia of Marde, Nightbringer, l-long may she— may she reign." 

The resounding cheer from her sisters was enough to bring down the roof. It grew even louder when the prince removed his crown and cast it aside.

Unable to keep the wild grin from her face, Svaia commanded the prince to kneel. He obeyed, dropping like a dead man at her feet. 

Einri presented her with a heavy wooden box. Inside were two items, both made from silver. Svaia took the first one, a smooth band, it's front slightly thicker and marked with a single sapphire. The prince's eyes went straight to the collar, to the gem at its front, a few tears slipping down his cheeks. He knew where it came from. What exactly the collar was made of. 

"With this collar, made from the silver throne your mother once ruled on, I give you a new name," Svaia stated, as she clasped it around his neck, "From here on, you will be known as Niven." 

"Niven," he echoed, sounding small and distant. "I-I… yes, o-of course. Thank you, your grace."

The second item was a crown. Or a circlet, rather. Far more defining of a warrior. The original crown's gem had gone to Niven's collar. This was just a plain silver band, as was her request. The cheering resumed as she placed it on her own head, feeling the small weight of it rush through her. 

She was not a queen. Not some wench that would sit on a throne and babble about nothing important. She was the Queen-Commander. Nightbringer. Where she went, death followed. 

This was not going to be a normal monarchy. Not by a long shot. She had never wanted to be a queen. But the power, _this_ power, was as intoxicating as any drug, any battle. 

It felt right. 

It _was_ right. 

The earth quaked as her sisters of blood and blade roared her name, 

_Nightbringer._

_Nightbringer._

The one who had led these women from a small band of savages, to the most powerful army the world had ever seen. The one who had led them, vagabonds, stragglers, nobodies, to a life of glory and riches.

She basked in their cries, a hand on her sword, her head thrown back to the sky. 

All the while, Niven stayed kneeling. As still, as pale-faced, as his brethren in chains. 

  
  
  


The celebrations went on for three days and three nights. The city was set aflame once more, turning the sky a blazing red when the sun was just right. Svaia didn't enter her room the entire while, sleeping in whatever hovel she ended up fucking some poor man half to death in. She didn't drink all that much, at least not on the third day. Her stomach couldn't take it. 

By the time the third night rolled around, she was more or less tired of it. So the Queen-Commander bid her sisters of blood and blade farewell, and made to finally claim her boy. 

She'd sent word an hour or so earlier, because she definitely didn't have the patience to wait very long. She wanted to see the prince, Niven, fall to pieces. 

When she entered her bedroom, Einri was just finishing the ties on Niven's feet. Her newest boy was bound, spread wide, one joint to each poster of the bed. He was panting, tears already visible below the blindfold. Hearing her enter, Einri stayed on his knees beside the bed, hands in his lap. 

Svaia looked at Niven down from head to toe. He was still dressed, in what appeared to be a pair of Einri's bedclothes, his limbs jerking against their bonds. His head was swinging wildly from side to side, trying to track her motion. 

"He is already frightened," She noticed, one brow raised.

"He fears the ties, Mistress," Einri whispered, "He is afraid you will leave him like this."

Svaia grinned, resting her hand on Einri's head as she watched Niven fidget and flinch. Leaning against her, Einri pressed a small kiss to the inside of her palm. "Where do you want me, Mistress?" 

"You can stay right there, Pet," she replied, "I've got a treat for you." 

Einri's face went carefully blank, which was a fair assessment. Her gifts were rarely pleasant. 

"Strip, Pet," she commanded him, while she herself grabbed a chair was the seating area, dragging it over to the bedside. Einri watched her, already naked by the time she returned. Svaia beckoned him to approach, running her hands down his scarred chest when he did. The cuts still left trace marks, since they couldn't let the fire go long enough to totally remove them without most likely killing the slave. The burn scars, on the other hand, were never going to go away.

Not that she minded. They looked like waves.

With no small amount of relief, she found herself looking forward to when Niven received the same treatment. So it was only Einri that made her soft. 

He shuddered under her touch, his eyes drifting shut. An oil had been smeared along all his marred skin, and then set alight. It wasn't very dangerous, given how often it was practiced and how specialized the doctors had become in treating it. Niven would be totally out of commision for two to three weeks, and need time to heal for quite a while after that. Truthfully, that was time she would happily lose. There was no way to come back from a pain like that. It would crush every last bit of rebellion inside him. Einri still feared fire, even though his burning had been six years ago, to the point that he would not light one unless she demanded it. 

"Take a breath, Pet," she whispered, "This one won't hurt you. That I swear."

"Of course, Mistress," he replied, returning her weak smile, "Whatever you command."

Svaia gave him a small half smile, and pressed a kiss to his lips. He too was a bit taller than her, but by now he automatically lowered himself to her lips. She gave his chest another pat, “You ready to hear about your treat?”

“Yes, Mistress.”

Beneath her fingertips, his heart was racing. 

On the bed, Niven was shaking like a wet cat, his lips clamped shut. 

Grinning, Svaia strolled over to the chair and sat down. “I’m not going to fuck Niven. You are.”

Einri stiffens, his thoughts seeming to stutter. “—me?”

She stretched her arms above her head, feeling her joints pop. “I’m all sexed out, I’m afraid. But I can’t very well let my newest boy go unclaimed, can I? My toy can finish the job for me.”

“I…” he blinked, swallowed, blinked again. “Of course not, Mistress. I— I would be honored to fulfill your request.”

“I’m glad to hear it. There should be oil in the bathing room.”

Einri nodded a few times, then vanished into the bathing room. To Niven, Svaia mused, “You should be grateful. He’s far gentler than I ever will be.”

“Y-Yes, Mistress,” came his broken, stammered reply. 

Removing the circlet from her head and setting on the bedside table, she went on to ask, “Have you been with a man before, Pet?”

“Can’t— Can’t say I have, Mistress,” Niven rasped, grasping onto the ropes that held him down.

“Ever been with anyone at all?”

“Um— Yes, yes, I—” he shifted, a tremor running through his legs. “When I was— when I was sixteen.” 

Svaia nodded, kicked out her legs and rested them on the bed’s edge. Her feet were killing her after all the dancing; she needed to have Einri give her a massage before they retired. “Has Einri discussed the behavior I expect of you?”

“Yes, Mistress. He— I-I will try v-very hard to be what you— what you want.”

Einri came out then, a pink vial in hand. “Forgive me, Mistress. I-It took me a moment to find it. Um,” he hesitated at the foot of the bed. “How do you— may I ask how you want me to start, Mistress?”

“You can start by getting on the bed,” she replied, “Then get him undressed.”

Einri nodded, shifting across the bed to Niven’s side, and started to untie his shirt. 

“Wait,” Svaia commanded. Einri stilled, looking at her just in time to watch her face spread into a vicious smile. “Rip them off.”

Dumbly, Einri echoed, “Rip—?”

“You heard me, Pet.”

Slowly, he nodded, set the vial on the headboard’s ledge. He gripped the front of Niven’s shirt, and hesitated. One second. Two.

“Get on with it,” Svaia snapped. Einri tore the shirt down his front, earning a lovely squeak from Niven. Then the pants, ripping them at the side seams. As expected, he wasn’t wearing any underthings, since Einri wasn’t allowed to wear them. So Niven just laid there, wholly exposed and turning a bright shade of pink. His cuts had healed into ugly, unpleasant scars, stark against his pale skin. She couldn't wait to hear him scream under the fire.

But that was for another day. 

"Go on, Pet," she coaxed, significantly more kind, "You know what to do."

Einri took a deep breath, his hands trembling as he took the bottle and uncorked it. 

Niven whined at the sound, lips quivering as he whispered, "P-please…"

"Einri," Svaia warned. He nodded quickly, pouring the oil over his fingers and reaching between Niven's legs. 

Tears in his voice, the prince wailed, "No! No, please! Please don't do this, please!"

"Lie still!" Svaia barked, "Einri, keep going."

"No!" Niven screeched, thrashing against his bonds, "No, stop! Don't!"

Einri looked at her, stricken, "Mistress, I—" 

"I gave you an order, Bitch," she snarled.

Einri bit his trembling lip, put a hand on Niven's belly. "You have to stop, Niven." 

"No! No, I can't— I don't want— I don't want this! Please, I didn't do anything wrong!"

"Niven, you need to stop this," Einri tried again. 

Niven threw his head back, knocking against the headboard, tears streaming freely down his face. "Please, please, gods, don't let this happen. Please, I can't, it's too much, I can't take it!"

"That's enough!" Einri snapped. The force of his voice took both of them by surprise. Niven quieted down, his breath still rattling, while 

Svaia just watched with a pleased expression, leaning back in her chair. "Enough dawdling. Get to it."

Einri sucked in a deep breath, closing his eyes. "As my mistress commands," he rasped. 

"Skip that," Svaia groused, when Einri reached back between Niven's legs. "He wasted any patience I had for it. Get to the fucking."

"Y-yes, Mistress," Einri squeaked, and began to stroke himself to hardness. 

One of her favorite things about her pet was the fact that he could always manage to get a proper erection. Maybe he was just that conditioned. Or, maybe it was because she never let him cum. The reasons didn't matter. 

Bracing himself on the bed, Einri positioned himself between Niven's thighs, hooking them around his waist as best as the bonds would allow. Niven made another desperate, frantic sound, tugging at his leg restraints. 

Einri ignored him. Took a slow, deep breath. He shifted, positioning himself, grabbing hold of Niven's hips.

"Take a deep breath," he said, and slowly began to ease himself into Niven's hole. Niven groaned, body bowing as he twisted, writhing, trying desperately to get away. 

Svaia had to grit her teeth. She definitely didn't want to rush this, or else odds were Niven would end up with some internal damage. But seeing them sit there, Einri panting as he bottomed out, fisting the sheets with his eyes closed, while Niven just moaned and cried, it was— boring. It was boring. Maybe she was more tired than she thought. 

Soon, Einri began to move. Slow, shallow thrusts, causing Niven to squirm and whimper. 

Einri closed his eyes again, breathing ragged. His thrusts grew faster, more pointed. Niven was quiet, face turned to the side, still weeping. Still wholly pathetic.

"Faster," she commanded. Einri obeyed, making Niven squeak. She repeated it. "Faster, Einri. Make him scream." 

"Pleassse," moaned Niven, his entire body jerking in time to the thrusts. "Ple— please, s-stop, I can't— can't breathe— it hurts, please, please—"

Svaia watched him fall apart. Not from pleasure, no, but as Einri's thrusts grew more and more aggressive, the more plaintive Niven's pleas became. Soon, he was just crying, every move punctuated with a gasp or a wail. Soon, Einri stiffened, his moves slowing. "Mistress," he panted, "May I—?"

She nodded.

Einri gave two more deep jerks of his hips, before he sucked in a sharp breath, and fell still. 

Niven was sobbing in earnest, lying slack against the bed. 

"Get him up, Einri," Svaia instructed, "Now that this is over with, I'm exhausted."

For a moment, just the smallest moment, Einri, breathless and sweaty, had looked at her as if she had gone mad. As if he couldn't believe exactly what she was saying. But then the expression disappeared, and he gave a quick nod. "Yes— yes, Mistress. Where should I—" he gestured to Niven. 

"Put him at the base of the bed, with his wrists bound to one of the posts." 

Einri obeyed. Untying his wrists, peeling Niven from the bed. The poor creature didn't even respond to his touch, just kept crying and crying. She didn't know what Einri did after that. Didn't really care. She knew he would obey. 

So as soon as the bed was vacated, Svaia flopped down and fell asleep. 

  
  
  
  


In the bathing room, Einri helped Niven wash himself. They were both trembling, both crying. Niven the heaviest, of course. Neither of them spoke. In fear of waking their Mistress in the other room, yes. But really, Einri didn't know what he would say. 

With a damp rag, he wiped away the crying mess Niven had made of his face. He applied a small amount of salve to the abrasions on his wrists and ankles. 

The silence was heavy. Crippling. Over their three days together, Niven had been timid, and yet animated at the same time. They'd enjoyed one another's company. Enjoyed getting to speak, to relax, to get to know each other. 

And now, Einri had been forced to—

He cut the thought off. 

_I follow my Mistress. I do as she commands._

He repeated it over and over to himself. A comfort, more than anything. He had obeyed, he had done well. At least in her eyes. 

He repeated it everytime Niven winced or flinched away from him. 

His mistress had made her command. He obeyed. He just… didn't understand why. He didn't have to. It wasn't his job to understand why she would do these things. He just obeyed. 

She was his queen, his god. He went where she led. He didn't dare question. 

He just… wondered. 

"You should try to sleep, if you can," Einri whispered, as he slung the rag over the tub faucet. 

Niven sniffled, pressed his hands to his face. "I-I can't…"

"You need to try," he insisted. "I don't know what she plans tomorrow. You need to be ready." 

A horrible, disgusting moment of silence. And then Niven began to weep. Not the body wracking sobs of earlier. Just meek whimpering little things. Somehow, that was worse. Einri drew him into an embrace, surprised and pleased when Niven actually let him. 

He wouldn't have blamed the boy if he despised him after this. Any sane person would have. 

But they were not sane. 

Einri squeezed him as tightly as he dared. "It's going to be alright," he whispered, "It will. I promise."

He was lying. 

"It hurts," Niven rasped, "It— it hurts so, so bad."

"I know, I know. You just— you just have to bear with it. It's going to be alright." 

Eventually, Niven's tears subsided. Not truly, Einri knew. The boy's eyes had gone hollow, far away. 

_My fault._

_I did this._

He finished putting things away, led Niven back out to the bedroom. Mistress was already fast asleep, snoring. The ropes were still on the bed posts. 

"I'm sorry," Einri whispered, as he bound Niven's hands together. Niven said nothing. Not when Einri urged him to lay down. Not when Einri left him to settle in his place by the empty hearth. 

He wouldn't be speaking for quite awhile. 

He loved her, but Mistress was cruel, and vicious. She was going to split this boy open from the inside out. 

Einri just hoped they both survived it. 

**Author's Note:**

> Check out my tumblr, same name!


End file.
